


Jury Duty

by pamdizzle



Series: Tumblr Fics and Drabbles--Gobblepot Edition [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Jury Duty, M/M, One Shot, cranky!Oswald, gobblepotweek2019, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 09:32:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17784923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: So, I had jury duty today, on Valentine's Day, and after first asking for inspiration from others, it occurred to me that I was sitting in a literal melting pot of fictional opportunity. So, here is a little ditty where I torture Oswald by making him live my personal experience this morning. Well, not exactly--his is infinitely more entertaining.Excerpt:“That wasn’t very nice,” a voice says, and Oswald rolls his eyes. He doesn’t bother to so much as glance in the stranger’s direction.“Funny, I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” he replies sourly.There’s a chuckle, then he replies, “It’ll only make a long day even longer, you keep up that moping.”Finally, Oswald sits himself up from his slouch, gripping is sore leg as he turns toward his nosey neighbor. “I will have you know that I am—”Oh, God.He’s hot.





	Jury Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Have a little something sweet for Valentine's Day. I'm adding this to the Gobblepotweek2019 collection, since I did write it with that in mind. <3

Oswald is running late, his leg protesting with every harried step he takes toward the entrance of the courthouse. There’s a line out front, a gamut of diversity yet all wearing the same miserable expression. They’re all huddled as close as they can be without physically touching, trying to find shelter from the freezing rain of Gotham’s early winter beneath the limited cover of the entrance’s awning.

Oswald stands apart, preferring a little rain to the huddled masses of the city. By the time he follows their sluggish procession into the lobby, his bangs are stuck to his forehead, coat mottled by its exposure to the elements. He shakes it off, pushes his bangs away from his face as he drops his wallet and phone into a waiting tray. They disappear down the conveyor belt, and Oswald steps through the metal detector.

His items are returned on the other side, and he tucks them back into his pocket before following the signs to the jury room. Begrudgingly, he reaches inside his coat and produces his summons for the clerk behind the desk.

“Checking in,” he tells her.

She raises her eyebrow, glancing around as if to say ‘obviously’ before scanning the barcode on his form and handing him a badge. It’s a cheap plastic card holder with a clip. There's a red piece of construction paper cut to fit inside that reads ‘JUROR’ in black, printed block letters. It’s good to see his taxpayer dollars at work, he thinks to himself sardonically.

The room is full of modern furniture, much to his surprise, but the thermostat is set far too high, further exasperated by all the unwilling bodies crammed inside. He’s sweating by the time he finds a seat, wedged between a floor length window and a frumpy older man in a tweed long coat. He’s only just reluctantly draped his own coat over the back of his chair and settled in before he’s accosted.

“Is this your first time?” The old man offers, stale breath wafting into Oswald’s space.

Oswald leans away, sniffling obnoxiously as he wipes his nose with his hand. “Yes, and it’s dreadful timing,” he proclaims, sweet as molasses. “I’be god a terrible cold.”

His ruse has the desired effect. The other man draws himself together, as if there’s a force field of distance that will save him from the flu. He clears his throat and pushes to his feet.

“I hope you feel better,” the man offers sincerely, adding as he backs away, “I just remembered there’s a question I meant to ask at the front desk.”

Oswald doesn’t watch him leave, tosses his coat over the vacated chair and slumps in relief.

“That wasn’t very nice,” a voice says, and Oswald rolls his eyes. He doesn’t bother to so much as glance in the stranger’s direction.

“Funny, I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” he replies sourly.

There’s a chuckle, then he replies, “It’ll only make a long day even longer, you keep up that moping.”

Finally, Oswald sits himself up from his slouch, gripping is sore leg as he turns toward his nosey neighbor. “I will have you know that I am—”

Oh, God.

He’s hot. Like, conventionally, square-jawed, bright-eyed, warm-smile _hot._ Attractive people don’t talk Oswald unless it’s to tell him to fetch their coffee or get out of their way. Not that being publicly reprimanded for being an asshole is preferable treatment. Sighing, Oswald deflates and turns bodily toward the window. Opting to ignore rather than engage.

It isn’t long before the clerk approaches the podium set up at the front of the room. She taps the mic, then begins, “Welcome to the thirtieth district court of Gotham City, and thank you for being here to fulfill one of the most important civic duties of our free society…”

She drones on about the rules, when they can take brakes, how to pay for parking, the length of their service and Oswald tunes her out. It might be his first time serving as a potential juror, but he’s no stranger to the system. He watches Law and Order, after all.

When she’s finished, Oswald closes his eyes against the pervasive sharpness of the bountiful fluorescent lighting. It’s then that he feels a whoosh in the air around him, followed by the creak of a butt hitting the seat beside him. His eyes snap open.

Criminally Hot Mister Do-Right has decided to invade all of Oswald’s hard-won personal space. He grits his teeth, narrowing his eyes in derision.

“That’s my coat,” he shortly protests.

Hot guy shrugs. “I moved it,” he offers, gesturing to the back of the chair where Oswald’s coat is now folded neatly along the back. “See?”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to touch other people’s things?” He asks meanly. “What about not talking to strangers, for that matter?”

“I’m Jim,” he replies, “and you’re…” he carries the consonant as he peeks at Oswald’s juror ID, “…juror number zero-nine-eight-seven.”

Oswald huffs. “What the hell do you want, Jim,” he says, fairly snarling the man’s name.

Jim’s smile finally falters as he reaches to rub at the back of his head. “I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”

“You think?” He complains, “This might be jury duty, but this isn’t a court of public opinion and I’m not on trial. I couldn’t care less about what you think, but frankly, you should be thanking me—that old bastard smelled like mothballs.”

Jim’s eyebrows raise, and then he sniggers, a mischievous, gleeful sound. It isn’t cute. In fact, Oswald despises it. That is, until Jim quiets down, perhaps noticing the baleful expressions of their groggy audience. He fixes Oswald with a wily grin, and it’s…is he flirting?

This is ridiculous.

Oswald is not a teenager; he’s a very successful loan officer at the city’s largest private mortgage lender. It’s been a long time since his words have gotten lodged in his throat on account of a pretty face. He’d awakened long ago to the realization that such expectations are foolish. Of course, this man—Jim—isn’t flirting with him.

Why would he?

“You know, you’re right,” Jim says, and he leans forward, rests a hand on Oswald’s shoulder. “Maybe I can thank you with a coffee or something? Did you have breakfast? We get a break at nine-thirty, and there’s a café downstairs. My treat?”

Oswald blinks, heart rabbiting in his chest. “I—”

Jim licks his lips, and that’s it. His brain is broken, all systems at critical mass. Jim sighs, gives Oswald’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Come on, Zero-Nine-Eight-Seven, what do you say?” Jim prompts, shaking Oswald from his stupor.

“Oswald,” he shakily supplies. “I’m—my name’s Oswald.”

“Oswald,” Jim slowly repeats, his eyes roving down along Oswald’s form before returning to meet his gaze. “I like it. It suits you.”

“Well, I should hope so,” he replies dumbly, words tumbling awkwardly from his mouth.

“I, uh…I’m sorry about earlier,” Jim says then. “I was just trying to get your attention.”

Oswald’s cheeks sting with the intensity of his flush. This is…unexpected, wholly unprecedented. “I…really?”

“Yeah.” Jim scoots a little closer. “I’m not usually this forward, but you’re gorgeous. Thought I’d take a chance.”

Oswald feels his lips quirk into a rare smile. “Well, I’m, uh, not particularly fond of coffee, but I wouldn’t say no to tea or—” Anything, probably. Instead he says, “Or breakfast.”

Jim smiles, his dark blue eyes so bright they could dispel the clouds hanging over the city. Oswald has a feeling that, years from now, he’s going to reminisce that jury duty is the best thing to have ever happened to him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this little number, let me know via a kudo or a comment. It feeds the muse, and will go a long way to easing the butt-hurt I'm experiencing over those four grueling hours of waiting to be called to judge my fellow man's deviant behaviors only to be dismissed. Which, yay, being a juror makes me nervous tbh, but also like...I'm never getting that time back and they're only paying me $17 for it, so that's like $4.25 an hour? WTF. lol
> 
> I would actually LOVE to know if any of you have had to do jury duty. Have you???


End file.
